


Roots of Silver

by Werif_esteria



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, My precious magical son, Peter is thrown off-balance for once in his life, Season One Peter, Stiles always gets what he wants, a little angsty, a little hopeful, fey stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-10
Updated: 2018-12-10
Packaged: 2019-09-15 14:04:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16934628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Werif_esteria/pseuds/Werif_esteria
Summary: Peter stalks through the narrow confines of his kitchen three times before the Alpha madness clears from his mind and he can finally figure out what it is that’s changed the air in his home.He’s not alone.





	Roots of Silver

**Author's Note:**

> Stiles is something other than human and I will die on this hill, thanks very much! Comments/critiques welcome.

Peter stalks through the narrow confines of his kitchen three times before the Alpha madness clears from his mind and he can finally figure out what it is that’s changed the air in his home. 

He’s not alone. 

A titter sounds behind him, and he swings around with a snarl, fangs sprouting and eyes once again clouding with red, to face the intruder—

Who turns out to be a twig of a boy, specifically the twig of a boy who helped Scott McCall escape from him in the woods tonight.

He’s sprawled in Peter’s lone kitchen chair, plaid shirt rumpled and disconcertingly long limbs akimbo, looking for all the world like he’s been waiting patiently for Peter to come home for hours. Even though Peter had just been snapping at his heels on the other side of town. The incongruity doesn’t even register through the rising bloodlust.

He will pay for his meddling, Peter decides as he lets himself sink back into the embrace of the ever-present violence humming in his veins. It races through him eagerly, telling him to claw bite tear kill. Gladly.

The Alpha readies himself to spring, already salivating at the thought of tearing into this whelp, this pup foolish enough to find his way into his den. He imagines the blood sprayed on his kitchen walls, reaching all the way to the ceiling. It will be annoying to clean up, but the kill will at least make the night somewhat worthwhile. 

Then something around the boy shimmers, lifts, reforms, and Peter finds himself scrambling to back up because even drunk on rage and more than half-crazed with power, he knows a fey when he sees one. 

Fey were chaotic on a good day and downright malevolent on any other. They took pleasure in sowing disorder, so their appearance always heralded trouble, whether they caused it or had just shown up to watch the show. When they were bored, they would take every opportunity to mess with the human realm, and they could do that quite well; they had power far beyond what an Alpha could ever possess. He’d heard tales of fey stealing fire from the old goddesses, starting wars amongst the humans for fun, dragging man and beast alike below ground for sport. They were masters of the subtle arts, collectors of fanciful objects, and general makers of chaos.

The boy—fey—Stiles, he thinks, blinks at him innocently.

They were also very skilled at flying under the radar, so to speak. That was why he hadn’t heard the creature come in, hadn’t sensed him until he wanted to be noticed. And now the fey had revealed himself to Peter in all of his glory. His honey-brown eyes had melted to bright silver, no pupil or iris to be seen. The boy preens as Peter looks him over. Pale wings shift like gossamer behind him, but the Alpha knows from several other fey encounters that they’re probably wickedly sharp at the points. 

“Surprise,” Stiles finally says. Peter says nothing, too caught between madness and fear, unbearably vulnerable in his home. A whine escapes from his throat, unbidden, and Stiles actually looks concerned. If a fey is capable of displaying that particular emotion.

Peter feels a gentle nudge against the madness that clouds his mind, something quick and silvery slipping inside to nuzzle against the core of who he is, or what remains of who he was. He doesn’t appreciate this invasion, feels his eyes bleed red yet again, teeth longing to close around something and rend. Rationally, he knows he’ll probably die if he picks a fight with the creature in front of him. But that quiet thought slides away as quickly as all his thoughts do these days.

“This won’t do.” 

In an instant, the fey is in Peter’s face, slapping one very human-looking hand to Peter’s forehead. Peter growls and moves to shove the hand away, ready to spring, but feels the presence in his mind seize hold of something and twist.

Stars burst behind his eyes and every sense fills with smoke and flames. The smell of sizzling flesh, his own flesh, filters in, and Peter wants to die. He’s trapped in his family’s house again, weak and pitiful and helpless to protect any of them as they burn around him—

The hand slaps him in the head again, and Peter surfaces with a snarl, latching onto the fey’s wrist. “What did you do to me?” he growls into Stiles’ face. Because his mind feels…clear, for the first time in seven years. The madness seems to have been all but drained from him. Peter’s not sure he wants to explore what might have taken root in its place. 

“Relax, I only removed what didn’t belong.” Somehow Stiles has managed to wiggle out of his grip. “You’ll feel much better if you take a second to realize you’re not a big scary monster anymore. 

Peter pauses, feeling dread creep up his spine at the thought of the things he’s done since waking up from his coma. Most of them don’t bother him, not really. But the thing he’d done to truly become a monster, Laura—

“Laura,” he rasped, the world descending into flames again. What had he done? 

“And here I thought we were about to make progress,” Stiles muttered, and Peter has had it with this infuriating creature. With a roar, he grasps the fey by his throat and slams him back into the wall. Plates rattle in the cupboards, but Stiles doesn’t bat an eye at the force of the blow. But he does sober. 

“I don’t mean to make light of your pain, wolf,” he says. “I merely wish for you to come to terms with what has already been done, what cannot be undone.” Peter glares at the fey, presses him further into the wall. 

“How can you expect me to come to terms with any of this? It feels like I’ve woken up so many times, but every time I do it’s just to another nightmare.” He breathes heavily, fangs inches from Stiles’ face. The fey merely angles his head as though trying to get away from the puffs of Peter’s breath. 

“Human relations mean nothing to me,” Stiles says flatly, then relents, “but I imagine the rending of so many pack bonds at once would have felt like the roots of the Nematon being ripped from my mind. Unbearable. Certainly enough to drive someone mad. Certainly enough to excuse their subsequent actions.”

Peter narrows his eyes at this. What game did the creature plan to play with him? Because there was always a game where the fey were involved. What possible motive could he have for curing him of his madness, trying to return him to rational thought in his blunt—though effective—way? “What do you want from me, in exchange for this…gift?” Peter spits out the last word through gritted teeth.

Stiles smiles, teeth pointed and dazzling. “I merely wish to help. To redirect your efforts and put all that…energy…towards a more fruitful approach than chasing teenagers around in the woods.” Peter deliberately re-curls his fingers around Stiles’ throat, making sure the fey feels the sting of each claw. Stiles is the one truly in control of the situation, he knows, but the show of force makes him feel just a little better about the horrific turn the night has taken. Peter wants nothing more than to hole up in his bedroom and parse through his memories with a clear mind. From Stiles’ expression, it doesn’t look as though that’s going to happen any time soon.

“We share a common goal,” the fey went on. “Ridding Beacon Hills of the Argent filth that threatens her.” Peter loosens his grip, but only a little.

“What could you possibly get out of their deaths?” he asks. “Surely their presence would cause far more chaos than their absence.” 

The fey tips his head back as far as he can to laugh at this. The sound is like a half-remembered melody, all ache and nostalgia. “While I’m all for chaos, I’m not particularly fond of it when it threatens my life.”

The Nematon. The fey is worried about what the Argents might do to it if allowed to take over the town. Peter makes a snap decision, which isn’t really a decision at all considering that Stiles could probably kill him a thousand different ways if he did anything but go along with things. 

He releases his hold on Stiles’ throat and steps back. The fey immediately slouches, leaning against the wall with the perfect assurance Peter had always thought only a teenager could possess. He wonders how old Stiles really is. 

The creature grins, as if reading Peter’s thoughts. “Do we have a bargain, then? Your sanity and safety, as well as any information I can glean on the Argents, for your cooperation and assistance in this endeavor?” 

Peter knows he needs to choose his words wisely. The fey loved mind games and word tricks, and he was currently ill-equipped for a battle of wits. “We have an arrangement. A cautious partnership, if you will,” he hazards. Stiles looks delighted at this turn of phrase, actually blinking out of existence for a second. 

When he reappears, it is directly behind Peter, suffusing the wolf in a buttery warmth that feels like the laziest of summer days. “You are absolutely lovely under all that madness, aren’t you?” Stiles’ voice drips like honey into his ears, and Peter doesn’t know if the noises rattling around in his head are alarm bells or something else entirely. 

He supposes he’ll have to wait and see exactly what takes root here.


End file.
